Cereal Box Surprise

“What the hell is that?”

I said with equal parts disgust and bewilderment. My Dad was standing in the TV room doorway looking puzzled. To the average human eye there may have been multiple problems with the ensemble that stood before me. But as a keen observer of “Dad” for over 30 years the black leather Velcro sneakers, the tattered flannel shirt tucked tightly into the thread bare two inches too short jeans didn't even register. This was standard. However what wasn't standard “Dad” wear was a small plastic red object clipped to his jeans pocket. It was the red, then the enormous 'K' emblazoned on it that grabbed my attention.

What's what?” “Dad” asked.

“That red thing.” (me pointing)

He began tugging on the red thing, which upon closer inspection had what appeared to be a digital clock embedded in it. In fact, not a digital clock, but a digital counting system.

It counts my steps as I walk, in the past 3 hours I've taken 1500 steps.” He replied excitedly. Actually “Dad” had been sitting in the basement at his computer for the past 4 days watching car racing . . . . so . . .

It's a pedometer isn't it?”

This was when Mum, who'd been sitting in the chair next to me piped up “JB has one, he was wearing it the other day. Your father liked it and I got that a year and a half ago in a box of Special K.”

Dad” removed the pedometer from his pocket and shook it at the passing cat. “I took 6 steps shaking it at Spanky!”

A Mother's Love. c/o Canada Post

Cavities

Here's my question. Why isn't pie a more acceptable breakfast food? WHY? Let's look at the facts, and by facts I mean ingredients. Fruit and carbs. This arrangement appears readily in pancakes, french toast, cereals, crepes, toast and Pop-Tarts. I say, if I can snack on a Pop-Tart for a mid evening dessert treat, I can sure as hell eat pie for breakfast. Which is exactly what I did this morning. Delicious, nutritious-ish and satisfying.

Which brings me to Pop-Tarts. I don't care that my teeth rattle the moment I open the delicate silver wrapping and a small plume of multi-colored dust puffs out. That just proves they're fresh, like the ripe juicy strawberries that go into them.

How to eat Pop-Tarts (for the curious):

The crust of icing is more delectable the longer it remains in the toaster. slightly singed is how I like 'em. So hot that on more than one occasion I've blistered an over-eager finger. Pie however, I like cold or room temp, no ice-cream totally alone and vulnerable.

Fast forward to 12:42am the next day. Thought......Ketchup chips, in theory carbs and fruit once again. Not breakfast material, even by my loose standards. Unless said breakfast is literal definition*.

Next time I'll warn you about the danger of fibre. Dried fruit friend or foe? Here's an answer. Foe.

* break⋅fast  [brek-fuhst]

–noun

1.the first meal of the day; morning meal:

My week in retrospect: The Highs the Lows

Laryngitis. It’s a bitch. Enough said. Primarily because I can’t say anything. All I can do is wheeze and gesticulate my way through a conversation. Telephones are a little more challenging. I did not call in sick. I’m amazed with myself. It would appear I’m growing up. Having said that I did manage to infect 3 people that I know of at work, and at least two outside of work.

Speaking of growing up. It’s my Birthday, or the Happiest Day of My Mothers Life. Hindsight's 20/20 am I right? So I was bitching to Polkadot via text about something, and she made a comment about my birthday creeping up on me. I said it wasn’t so much creeping as it was lying in wait. Which reminds me, the reason I text her was because of this dis-tress-ing piece of information. I was sorting through a mountain of denim, deciding what the most pleasing formation on the table would be. When all of a sudden a glaring long thread nestled smugly betwixt the jeans. I pulled at it and in no time realized it was not a thread, but a strand of my hair. My beautiful long blonde . . . . . . . hang on! I psst’d to my co-worker and in a panicked ear-splitting whisper bleated out the words “BLONDE OR GREY?! . . . . . . . BLONDE OR GREY!?” . . . . . . silence and some inspection took place and the sweet young thing in front of me said matter-of-factly “it's white.”

I could have wrung her lithe 18 year old neck. So ladies and germs, my first grey . . . oh I’m sorry, white hair.

It’s really difficult to convey urgency and anger when the only sound you can make sends dogs into hysterics. I probably should have called in sick Monday. But I couldn’t you see, because it was my contract negotiation meeting. Huzzah! Overall it went well, I am now the proud owner of a slightly revised title: Visual Merchandising and Graphics Manager. This is good news, and I think we all know how often I have good news to share. I do in-fact have more good news, but you’ll all find out about that in about 9 months . . . hardy har har.

'

Seriously though. Pregnancy. I could use some 'Mat Leave' and who doesn’t want priority seating on the bus? And lets not forget the joy of bringing life into the worl . . . . never-mind. I can’t even keep a straight face. So back to real life. Prams and strollers on the bus anger me. Take an effing cab. Between the 400lb dude sitting across from me and the mother to my left 5 regular size people have been displaced. Well I mean the bus is disgusting, they deserve to be on it. I don’t. I had a friend who used to say “friends don’t let friends ride public transit” that was a nice thought . . . . before the luster faded and I ended up back on the bus. Naturally, seated next to the wally who barks into his mobile in broken English . . . and fluent Quebecois. I cranked my Jethro Tull and could still hear his grunting over the whine of Ian Anderson. Hate. But fortunately the work week is almost over, and another weekend quietly and mysteriously descends. Anything could happen . . . ? And by anything I mean laundry.

Tune in next time to find out the positive and typically negative effects of three 6 foot blondes let loose in a city over 48 hours.

A Very PG Christmas

It wouldn't be Christmas if Mum didn't kill one of our cats. An otherwise delightful 60 minute drive into the depths of suburban Ontario was ruined when I tactlessly asked if both cats were still alive. This question prompted an all too familiar glare from my dad in the rear-view mirror, and muffled sobbing from mum in the passenger side. * silence * Apparently the answer to my question was 'no'.

And so began my trip back east for the Holidays.

The homestead. A few things we need to sort out first. Moth balls. In a word: Dreadful. And as I just very recently learned, a cousin to the urinal cake. Upon opening the folks front door I immediately began wheezing and gagging in mock-ish agony. In the infinite wisdom of those in the 1600's where by disguising a putrid smell with a slightly more floral putrid smell, Mum thought it appropriate to ignite some scented oils. I marched upstairs within minutes of arriving home and tore open the folks closet doors. My bionic nose had lead me right to a small mesh bag of what appeared to be mentos (not even close to being the fresh-maker) dangling at chin height from a hanger. I snatched them out of what would otherwise be a lovely walk in closet and tossed them over to Mum who obligingly pitched them in the rubbish. The smell lingered for days. Fortunately after three days of not leaving the place my nose became acclimatized and I couldn't smell a thing. Until that is I stupidly left the warmth, sandwiches and milky tea of my sanctum sanctorum for the cold outdoors. I left the house 3 times in 6 days.

After the assault on my olfactory senses, I was able to begin to familiarize myself with my surroundings. Over the phone Mum had warned me that she had put up the Christmas ornaments. “you'll probably think it's too much.”

She was right. There were 10 x-mas trees throughout the house, and there were bits of greenery and /or holly perched behind spare corners of picture frames. Real boughs and faux boughs sprung out of every available vessel or trimmed any semi-bare surface. Mum had decked the halls. A lot to take in, but the good news is the woman has good ornaments. There were only a couple which I pleaded with her to remove. By 4:00 on day 1 two trees had been removed. Granted, it was later that night I found one in the bathroom and one in her bedroom. So not really removed, so much as re-positioned. At least she has taste, and at least she doesn't adorn surfaces with musical light-up snowmen. Highly festive, and by day 2 the delicate pong of mothballs was waning, and the aroma of piragi was permeating every room instead. * sigh*

Ahhh Christmas. In my old age I've found it rather pleasant to simply eat and snooze myself into oblivion over The 'Hols'. Mums are great. They are great for baking, dinners, hugs and their old Ports blouses. I ransacked my mum's closet a few times and came away with some sweet stuff. The bad news is, my mum has owned these things and worn them for years, but on my first outing in any of them I manage to stain or spill on them. Guilt. Fortunately Christmas Eve was the exception, even draped in cobalt blue silk, and feeding 'the last cat standing' gravy I remained stain free. Of course the ungrateful beast left me three little shreds of sauerkraut from her Christmas gravy. But even those remained on the delftware dish and not down my front.

In conclusion: Dry-cleaning is a total rip-off. I had to clean two of my x-mas finds already. Natch. It cost $50 clams, and the stains are still there. Thank Christ I got a Tide To Go in my stocking. That's the other thing about Mom's, at least mine, they know what their children need. And that friends, is constant supervision. Even in her 30's.

For JT

I hear Avatar is a rip roaring good time. I wouldn't know because I spent the duration making a concentrated effort to not throw up.

An elite few are fortunate enough to know about my exceptionally weak stomach. At age 12 I spent 85% of a Fijian cruise sleeping in the bunks of the ship. My earliest memory of being in an airplane was yakking my guts out at age 4 as we landed in Cape Town. The ferries were always unpleasant, although I think the only time I vomited was because I was coming home from seeing Nirvana on the mainland and was still a little drunk. Busses, I remember a particular trip heading up island on an excruciatingly long ride, I believe I spent 45 minutes or so in the can. Motion and me do not mix. This is another genetic gem I can thank my father for.

With the rejuvenated popularity of 3D films I have been forced to view movies through nausea colored lenses. I was prepared for the worst on my first outing. Shockingly Bolt was great. I laughed, I cried (seriously) and best of all, I did not toss my cookies. Up was also great, again, laughed, sobbed uncontrollably and kept my lunch down. Avatar. What could possibly go wrong? It's animated-ish? I survived the others . . . . ? Of course I can handle James Cameron's latest sci-fi epic Avatar. Here's the difference. With my first two 3D experiences I was not in the very front row of the theatre. I was also not subjected to constant (although I'm sure effective, if I had been able to focus) running, jumping and flying scenes. Scenes padded heavily with sweeping panoramic shots of levitating mountains, dive-bombing dragons and disorienting chases through jungles. I am amazed I remained in my seat for as long as I did. I only ate a quarter of a bag of pop-corn, which is unheard of, and I left half my soda-pop, also unheard of. I know the film was long, so I can't be sure if I got up an hour before the end or a half hour. All I know is when I came back from the bathroom I stood happily at the back of the theatre and enjoyed a civilized 3D experience from a tolerable distance. What I did see, which was A LOT of blue knee-caps, was terrific. I think I'll really enjoy it when I illegally download it on my computer next week.

"The Coast is Toast" - I refuse to take credit for the title.

Review: Volcano - Directed by Mick Jackson.

Not only does this film provide the most bizarre, not to mention feeble romantic pairing since Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovitt, but it delivers never-ending hilarity in the form of human incineration.

Ohmigosh….the earths core has reached a boiling point and like the pent up frustration of an adolescent boy the lava’s got to escape the confines of the planets mantel and crust! Where will the tonnes upon tonnes of molten rock go? LA. That’s where. Flash to 5 burly guys in hard hats and luminescent pinny’s squeezing down a manhole to perform some ‘plot’ dependent work on gas-mains. Let the hilarity and incineration begin.

Amidst violent eruptions on Wiltshire Blvd and a permanent rain of ash, expert: Anne Heche and sceptic: Tommy Lee Jones try to form not only a scientific alliance, but a romantic one. With all the chemistry of a biology lab these two fumble through two hours of lava flows, constant screaming, lessons in racial equality and tolerance for your fellow man (even if he’s a woman).

One and a half hours in, we breath a sigh of relief as LA’s finest (directed by TLJ) stop the painfully slow moving lava. Lava that’s creeping through the city faster than you can say….. speak and define; antidisestablishmentarianism. About two dozen helicopters and about 80 fire trucks saturate the magma with gallons and gallons of water and LA is saved. *cheering*

Right.

Cheering continues until clever Anne Heche realizes it’s not over till it’s daylight and thousands of innocent peoples lives are in peril.

Cue: impossible to execute plan, this time involving a precision building demolition. Now imagine TLJ’s daughter is in the basement of that building. (laugh track)

I won’t ruin it for all y’all by telling you TLJ charges into the demolition zone to save his idiot daughter and some token 4 year old kid. He catapults himself on top of the 2 children in the nick of time. After a tense 3 seconds or so TLJ emerges from the rubble carrying the random kid, with his idiot daughter crawling out behind him….. all three…. unscathed. Random kid looks across the masses of firefighters, doctors, looters, and blue collar workers and poignantly whispers.

“they all look the same”

Pan on ash covered crowd. (pause) 7 gratuitous seconds later the sky opens, and sunbeams dapple the throngs of people. The rain of hope and new beginnings begins to fall heavily. Washing away all traces of ash, reminding us we’re all very different, different is bad, and camaraderie in the face of an urban volcano will never EVER change that.

TLJ and AH exchange useless banter and don’t kiss in the down pour, as much as we want them to. Instead the movie ties up nicely with Anne offering Tommy, his idiot daughter and their golden lab a lift home in her Hummer. Helpfully leaving a slew of fires in Hollywood, mudslides in Malibu and a 2 mile wide bubbling crater smack dab in the middle of Beverly Hills.

John Corbett is in the movie as well, but he appears about as frequently as rational thinking. Twice.


The End